The Unfinished Tale
by fourleggedfish
Summary: Watson reminisces on an unusual encounter with Holmes. Please see warnings inside. m/m SLASH! Don't like, don't click.


Okay, so...I normally write House MD fics, but I've been on this ACD kick lately, and I thought, what the hell. So this is my first Sherlock Holmes story, and I'm frankly terrified to post it because it's one of the most demanding fandoms I've ever browsed. *puppy dog eyes* Please be nice? I welcome con-crit, but please don't comment just to whine or be mean. I have a fragile ego. :P

**Title:** The Unfinished Tale

**Author:** Fourleggedfish

**Disclaimer:** Sherlock Holmes is in the public domain, but I do not own it and I make no profit from it.

**Warnings:** I am not a Sherlockian purist, so...please forgive my Americanisms and any flubs that you may find in here. I'm a newbie to the fandom (and not drawn in by the new movie, just FYI). And I decided not to rewrite it because I'd end up obsessing and worrying myself into a fit, so this is the uncensored version, so to speak. There isn't really any point to this story - it's mostly just a self-indulgent PWP. Please don't hold it against me.

**Additional Warnings:** This is slash, and explicit - **rated NC-17** - so if you don't like the idea of two 19th century men humping like bunnies, you should probably navigate far away from here. And I suppose that perhaps this tale would count as dubious consent, though I assure you, no characters were harmed or irreparably scarred in the making of this fine piece of literary tripe.

**Timeline: **Loosely set post-Moriarty and the return of Holmes. I prefer the Granada version of Holmes/Watson, so...picture that. :)

erm...so, then. Please enjoy.

* * *

I am normally a quite discrete and well-behaved gentleman, not prone to flights of wit or rash actions that could leave my reputation as such compromised. Still, as I have admitted in the past (to my great chagrin and Holmes' amusement), I do have an unfortunate affinity for luring in the fairer sex. Not on purpose, mind you; I am assuredly not spending ribald evenings out in pursuit of easy companionship. Yet on occasion, a certain lady may catch my eye and I hers, and if I am in a particularly morose mood, it seems perfectly reasonable that I may soothe myself and my unseemly passions in the arms of an equally-minded woman.

These trysts never occur more than once with the same person; I am as adept at detecting the tells of a lady in search of single encounters as Holmes is at detecting what route I took home from my surgery by the array of dust on the toes of my shoes. Likewise, I can tell a discrete woman from those of loose tongues who might endanger my reputation or cling unwanted to me after the single encounter has ended. In the past, I often tangled with the less desirable sort of lady and often found myself in the position of having to openly shun an otherwise upstanding specimen of the female persuasion. It is ironic, therefore, that I failed to examine my reasons for this lack of commitment on my part, and why I should choose women with whom I had no hope for a long-term arrangement, over ladies of a marrying type. My beloved Mary being the one exception, and that borne, I suspect in my most private thoughts, from some minor exasperation and loss of patience for one of Holmes' more hare-brained schemes.

In any case, those days are long behind us both. My late wife and infant child are now buried while Holmes miraculously lives. It is a strange world indeed.

Holmes, on the whole, has been unusually agreeable since his return, though that is of course my own humble opinion. He continues to vex Mrs. Hudsen with the cluttered state of his things, an odd counterpoint to his fastidious personal cleanliness, which also vexes our poor landlady in the form of occasional midnight requests for bathwater and the like. If Holmes would only conduct his business during more decent hours, I have told him, then he would not find need to wash himself clean of stable muck and the like when reputable folk such as the Mrs. Hudsen and the labor boys are abed.

Of course, I digress where Holmes is concerned. I suspect reluctance on my part to tell this tale, as it would certainly not be as well received as the tales I publish of Holmes' detecting exploits. This is a personal tale, rather – an account of the human side of my very dear friend that I seldom have occasion to see. Always, Holmes disguises himself behind a veneer of etherealism as sure as he may don a costume for the sake of a case. It amazes me that Holmes can be at once so adventurous on one front, and so willingly blind on another.

It started innocently enough, so to speak, with one of those dalliances of which I confessed to be fond. It occasioned that I met a charming woman one afternoon at the bookstore, a widow close to my own age. We exchanged pleasantries and I found, to my delight, that she was rather well-educated as far as a lady could be. I believe that it was over a discussion of old Latin poetry that I became briefly enamored of her, and when she returned my hand on her forearm with a soft brush of her gloved fingers, I considered the deal sealed, such as it was. We had a common ground, but she a station to uphold. All the same, we are but human creatures with baser instincts and needs, much as it may pain us to admit. All of this, of course, was said under the guise of quoting various classic writers. Still, the subtext in such situations could not be more clear, especially with myself smiling and leaning toward her, and the lady demurring in a such a way that I could not help catching a glimpse of her pale bared neck.

Needless to say, after the courting dance concluded, I invited the lady to Baker Street as it was merely a block over. Holmes had left that morning in a flurry, no doubt off to reveal some grand plan of capture to Lestrade over a case he had been consulting on. I have not been as involved in his work as I once was, but I believe that is merely a side effect of his long absence. Already, I spend less time at my practice and more with him. In no time, I suspect things will be back to the way they were before Moriarty rudely interrupted our lives, but for now, we are rather as we were when I first came to share lodgings with him so many years ago. Holmes had bustled out that morning with a warning that he should certainly not make it back in time for dinner, much less high tea, and I thought myself safe in entertaining my new lady friend for an hour or two.

The lady and I partook of tea only as a pretense, and perhaps to whet our appetites for finer things. I then enjoined Mrs. Hudsen to purchase a goose to be prepared on the morrow, and presented her with a handsome enough sum that she no doubt deduced exactly what I was up to. She is a kind and understanding woman, however, and she left my new friend and I in peace without merely a glance of a motherly sort, disapproving and yet not surprised in the least, as all mothers know that a man's nature is such that he cannot always help his needs.

It should have been a fine evening. I escorted the lady to my room, where I am certain I do not have to describe in detail what occurred between us. And it was surely an act of God that dictated the exact moment of Holmes' return, for the hour was yet early when I heard the door downstairs slam shut, followed by the unmistakable sound of Holmes' heavy and overexcited footsteps on the stairs. Initially, I smiled at my fair companion, and she teased that we would have to keep our silence now. I thought her very coy in that moment, and I agreed of course. How could I protest, after all? We were in the midst of a very pleasurable activity, and Holmes, as was his custom, should be deep into his first pipe of the evening by now. So we continued with our diversions.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I found it odd that Holmes should be so actively fluttering about through the rooms below, but I was extremely distracted by the lithe woman hovering over me. The racket should have tipped me off to one of Holmes' more unmanageable moods, the manic side to his nature out in full force. I should have suspected that his day had not gone as planned, and that he was probably quite agitated by that fact. Further, I should have known that he would notice my coat and hat below, and realize that I was home from my surgery earlier than usual. What should have followed that is a conclusion that anyone could reach.

So it was that I froze at the sound of his footsteps bounding up the stairs to my room, and in horror, I realized that I had failed to lock my door. I had thought to be alone in the house for another hour, at least. The good lady seemed to realize this too, but there was no time even to cover ourselves; Holmes leaves no spare time for such things. The poor man burst into my room in a fit of energy, a flush to his cheeks, excited rather than frustrated, and loudly proclaimed, "I say, Watson! You will not believe what I have been about today." Only after that did my old friend actually look at the room he occupied. And there I was entwined with the good widow with no hope that Holmes could miss noticing the exact placement of all our most private parts.

I watched Holmes stutter on his feet as he took in the scene, and then he went quite pale in shock. Just to break his paralysis, I said, "I take it your case went better than you expected? You seem quite pleased." Or he had at first, anyhow; now he looked buggered. To this day, I have no idea how I managed to sound so unconcerned to be found by my dearest friend, naked with a lovely woman straddling me, and neither of us moving to conceal ourselves since it was quite too late for that anyway. "I would love to hear all about it over tea once I've seen the lady out."

Holmes flushed to the roots of his hair to find himself staring blatantly at our joined bodies; it is one of the few times I have ever seen him at an extreme loss for words. As it was, I felt quite bad for him, as he was so obviously mortified to have burst in on us en flagrante delecto. He left without a word, his eyes averted, and if I am any judge of his stride, he nearly tripped on his way down the stairs.

The lady and I disentangled as soon as Holmes reached the landing outside the sitting room, and by mutual consent we reached for our clothes instead of finishing our interlude. It was of no real consequence; the lady actually thought it amusing, and as she had already taken her pleasure several times at my hands, she only had cause to voice regret that I had not yet joined her in bliss. I assured her that there were no hard feelings, exchanged polite words of parting that in no way obscured the fact that we would never meet again, and saw her to the door where she hailed a cab. Once she was safe on her way, I pulled shut the door of our house and peered up the stairs toward the sitting room. Not a sound issued from it, and I admit that this troubled me greatly.

When I pushed open the sitting room door, I found Holmes ensconced in his favorite chair by the fire, his knees drawn up under his chin with his heels resting on the edge of the chair cushion. It is one of his more beguiling poses, as he often appears to be so lost when he sits like that. I don't think he realizes that he only adopts that position when he is bothered, and that it is a surer tell than any he might discern from my face on any given day. Only the pipe in his hand detracted from the idea of a small boy huddled close to a wan source of warmth and light.

"Evening, Holmes." I received no response to my greeting, not even a flicker of his eyes in my direction, which only served to heighten the sense that Holmes was more disturbed by his inadvertent breech of privacy than I thought necessary. "I'm not angry, if that's what holds your tongue."

"You should have locked your door," Holmes agreed, but his voice carried little tone.

"Well, it's done now. I see no need to dwell on it." I strode over to the dining table to see if the tea from earlier could still be called palatable. It was tepid but passable, so I sipped at a cup while examining Holmes, who made a clear point of not studying me back.

Eventually, Holmes stirred enough to make himself more comfortable in that scrunched posture, and calmly inquired, "Will you see her again?"

I had thought, at the time, that I was mistaken about the note of jealousy I thought I perceived in his tone. Taking it for his usual brand of possessiveness, I merely replied in the negative and settled myself at the table with the evening newspaper, which Holmes had discarded upon his untimely arrival.

We did not speak for the space of several articles, which I read with only half a mind to their contents. After perusing an uninteresting account of the doings of one of London's societies for the benefit of unfortunates, I noticed that Holmes seemed to be in some discomfort. He shifted every few heartbeats until I could only describe his covert movements as a sort of squirming to which he apparently hoped not to draw my attention.

I folded the newspaper and set it aside, concerned. "I say, Holmes. You didn't injure yourself today, did you?"

"I am quite fine, Doctor. Thank you."

Well, that curt tone tended to mean the exact opposite, so I pursed my lips and rose from my chair. "Honestly, Holmes; I can see you fidgeting. If you've harmed yourself, you should let me look at it."

Holmes shut his eyes as if to gather patience, and then peered balefully at his knees. "It is nothing you can assist with, I assure you. Pray, leave me in peace and I'm sure it will resolve itself."

"You're sure it…" I couldn't help the tiny chuckle when I realized what he meant. "Oh, Holmes." I made no attempt to cover my mirth at discovering that witnessing my indiscretion upstairs had left him in an aroused state. "I am quite sorry, old boy."

Holmes did not appreciate my laughter, and he glared to let me know it. "It is a minor affliction. Nothing more."

This estimation merely served to make me chortle as I turned to find a decanter of brandy. "I would hardly call it an affliction, Holmes. An inconvenience, perhaps, but nothing to be ashamed of. Most men would find it welcome, in better circumstances."

Sullen and petulant, Holmes replied, "I want nothing to do with it."

I rolled my eyes at this and carried a snifter of brandy to the chair opposite him. "So, you lump carnal aspirations into the same category as food and sleep? I should have suspected, considering your less-than-flattering estimation of the fairer sex."

Holmes drew himself up imperiously and declared, "They are frivolous, Watson." Meaning not just carnal delights, but any indulgence of the body, including proper diet and rest; we have had this argument many times. "They do nothing but distract me from my work. And while food and sleep have restorative properties, _this_ – " He somehow gestured between his legs without between obscene. " – serves no purpose other than to consume energies that I prefer to expend elsewhere."

I sipped my brandy sedately, contemplating him in the wake of his tirade, and then I clasped the brandy glass in both hands. "Do you really believe that, Holmes? That chastity is better for the mental faculties than an occasional indulgence?"

Holmes regarded the fire through hooded and wary eyes. "The only use I have for a body is as a vessel for my mind. If I could do away with its needs altogether, I would."

"And that, my dear friend, explains why you indulge your body with things like your beloved cocaine?" It seemed wise not to look at him when I said that, and so I kept my eyes leveled on the fire while I took another sip of the brandy.

To my surprise, Holmes sighed. "You are correct, of course. I am something of a hypocrite in that."

I resisted the urge to gape at the admittance, and instead blandly replied, "I am gratified to hear you say that."

"I am not so thick, Watson." Holmes shifted yet again, this time wrapping his arms about his calves to hug his legs to his chest. "But my mind needs occupation, and when there is nothing else, well." He shrugged, propping his chin on his knees to better stare into the fire. "It is better to be caught in a stupor where I find it impossible to care."

I looked up sharply at this, for I had never heard Holmes speak with such honesty about his cursed habit before. Since he seemed to be in a rare sharing mood, I asked, "Is it really such an improvement, the cocaine? Does it truly help?" Of course, I knew the answer, but I wondered if perhaps Holmes knew it too. He should be a fool if not, but on occasion, my dear friend could be quite willfully blind to his own motives.

Homes moved a shoulder, appearing faintly resigned for a moment, then plainly replied, "No. But I have little else to distract me."

I nodded and decided to pursue the issue no further. For now, his admission would be enough, and I could always relate it back to him later, the next time I found him contemplating the damnable needle.

Nearly ten minutes passed before I tore my eyes from absent contemplation of the fire. Holmes had not moved from his chair, but he ceased his restless adjustments as soon as he found my eyes upon him. Peevish with a hint of his earlier blush trapped on his cheeks, Holmes demanded, "What, Watson?"

It took no master detective to know that Holmes' _affliction_ had not yet subsided. Politely, I suggested, "Why don't you retire for a few minutes? I shall go downstairs and replenish our tea." Neither of us would drink more, I was sure, but it provided enough of an excuse to give Holmes some minutes' privacy in his bedchamber to relieve himself.

"No," Holmes snapped. "Thank you. I shan't be wanting tea tonight."

With an exasperated sigh, I gestured to him and replied, "It's not about the damn tea, Holmes. I'm trying to preserve your dignity."

Holmes glanced up, one eyebrow arched in obvious confusion. "My dignity? I thought you said it wasn't shameful. Now it is?"

I took my turn at perplexity. "No. I only meant to give you privacy to relieve your…issue."

To my surprise, Holmes looked positively horrified.

"I take no offense," I assured him quickly. "It's perfectly natural to have this reaction after viewing a very lovely lady without her clothes on. And if it has not subsided yet, then you should certainly feel free to…to, ah. Take care of it. Again, it's nothing shameful, whatever old biddies might say of it."

Holmes just continued to stare at me with an owlish look about his face, as if he had been caught out in a lewd act instead of me.

I leaned forward in my chair at this, and to my chagrin, he drew back in his. "Holmes," I said delicately. "You do know what I'm talking about, right?"

"Of course!" he practically shouted, but then he shrank in his chair and directed his gaze once again at the fire.

I proceeded carefully, wary of giving him further cause for embarrassment, for I could already see the color rising in his cheeks again. "Then you must know that you would be much more comfortable afterwards. As a doctor, I can assure you of this."

"It will go away," he stated forcefully. But he seemed unsure of this assertion.

It was strange, my intuition at that moment. Nothing in his posture or affect gave it away really, and yet to me who knew him so well, it seemed plain as day. I had never once known him to pursue a lady in any capacity, and as we had discussed many a time, he felt he had no use for the baser side of human nature. Almost in awe, I realized aloud, "You have never experienced it, have you."

"If I find myself in this situation," Holmes snapped, irritable at my insight, "it does not last. It _should_ not last."

Against my will, I viewed my oldest friend with a measure of fascination. "Have you ever felt an orgasm?"

Holmes flinched from my blunt question, but otherwise did not answer. A few heartbeats passed broken by a crackle and shift of the logs in the fire, and in the wake of the cluster of sparks, he gave a circumspect answer. "I had the same nocturnal afflictions as any adolescent boy, but nothing…nothing after." He grew more animated after that, seeming angry over having this conversation, and proclaimed, "I want it to go away, Watson. I don't want to deal with this."

I could recognize a hint of fear in Holmes' voice, and even though he was approaching forty years of age, he seemed such a young man of a sudden. Holmes did not like his life to take unexpected turns. Cases, yes; but not things affecting his own person in such an intimate manner. He did not like to be reminded of the weaknesses of his body at all; it made him common, I imagine. Holmes preferred to remain above such cares.

"Holmes, listen."

He cut me off by violently shaking his head, his face caught in a tremendous, concerted frown.

"Yes," I argued. "You need to take care of it. As your doctor, and more importantly as your friend, I'm ordering you to go to your bedroom and do so. Now."

"Watson – "

It was probably cruel of me, but I interrupted, "If it goes on too long, the entrapped engorgement of blood could turn gangrenous. You need to take care of it."

Holmes' head snapped up and he stared at me, appalled, before looking down between his own knees. Then he peered at me again and said, "You're not serious."

"Oh, I assure you, an extended period of priaprism can be quite serious." It would be hours before his condition became problematic, if it even lasted that long, which I doubted. But I was bent on the notion that he should experience this if only because I could not understand his trepidation.

Holmes did not recognize that as a half-truth, for his gaze flickered downward again as he leaned back in his chair, his arms loosening so that he could actually see his lap this time. It was quite comical; somehow, I forbore to laugh at the expression on his face.

Pushing my advantage, I said, "I know that you must have researched such things before, am I right? Erotic literature? Perhaps you garnered inadvertent knowledge while conversing with the lower sorts found in White Chapel?"

Mute and rather distracted, Holmes nodded, still staring down between his slightly parted legs.

"Then you know _how_…?" I left the question hanging, for no other reason than I had run out of civilized ways to refer to the act of pleasuring oneself.

Again, Holmes nodded, but this time, he raised his eyes to meet mine as if to silently plead with me to render this all a cruel joke against him.

"Well, then." I slapped my thigh as I stood up, taking my brandy glass with me. "Get to it, old chap." And with that, I gathered the tea tray and left him alone in the sitting room.

Mrs. Hudsen questioned my presence in her kitchen, and then gave me an odd look when I burst out in silent laughter for no reason that she could discern. But she let me remain in her domain while she set the kettle on to boil fresh water, and I passed perhaps a wuarter of an hour in pleasant conversation with her. I figured that should have been enough time, even if Holmes had lollygagged around for a few minutes, and once the tea tray had been filled again, I politely thanked Mrs. Hudsen and carried it back upstairs with me.

The sitting room was empty upon my return, and Holmes' bedroom door shut tight. No sound issued from within, but that meant little; he had either finished, or he had heard me return and stopped. I set the tea tray down with great care and stood a moment listening, though I could hardly admit to myself that I did so with a marked sense of anticipation. I cannot deny that Holmes possesses a power of attraction, one that is hardly sexual in nature and yet which I find him rather alluring all the same. Holmes draws people to him quite without conscious effort through a curious brand of charisma that stems both from his trustworthiness and his competence, not to mention his intelligence. The man is quite a wonderful contradiction, a genius who nonetheless seems to know so little of personal joys. He takes pride in his work and yet is genuinely surprised to receive a note of praise from anyone other than myself. I recall quite clearly that Lestrade once paid him a high complement, after the business with the Vennucci clan, and Holmes appeared so innocently joyful and surprised that for a moment, I expected to see actual tears in his eyes. Then there is the gentler side of Holmes' nature, which I have seen in his unguarded moments, but which he hides so well from everyone else. Holmes cares quite deeply for certain people, even strangers, and especially his gang of irregulars, and yet he deems it a weakness to let others know of it. In fact, I often fancy that his own warmth is a source of constant puzzlement to him, since it serves no purpose and he goes out of his way _not_ to cultivate it. In spite of his efforts to stifle it the warmth yet remains intact and thoroughly beyond his control.

As I have often done since Holmes returned to me, I wondered for a moment what shaped this man I have come to call my dearest and most intimate friend. It is as if he possesses a social affliction that allows him to act, fake and assimilate within society, but not to truly understand or belong in it. Or at least, that is how I sometimes imagine he feels. And he hides this fact by immersing himself in detection and logic as if the deficiencies in his life do not matter. There are times when I think that even he believes it, which I am sure can be traced as a source of his ego. Not the pleasant part of it, but the infuriatingly arrogant part that he foists on me when he is in an ill temper or especially bored.

Yet again, I digress. Holmes' nature is the subject of other stories. I shall continue with this one.

I spent some time fussing with a pile of articles that Holmes had not yet filed, and then I grew impatient. The silence suggested that Holmes had done away with his problem by now, and I took offense to the idea that I should be left creeping about my own sitting room like an intruder. So I strode purposefully to Holmes' bedroom door and rapped my knuckles on the frame. "I say, Holmes. Not to be a nuisance, but I was hoping to conclude our evening in the usual fashion with a pipe and a brandy."

I could hear a rustle of fabric on the other side of the door, as if Holmes were sitting up, and then he mournfully called, "It's not gone."

I made a face at the door; it was like dealing with a man-child, which should not have surprised me quite as much as it did. "Did you try?"

"Yes! I tried, you – " Holmes cut himself off before he called me something unkind. "How long is it supposed to take?"

"It depends," I hedged. Once again, I was struck by the impulse to laugh at the ridiculousness of this whole situation. "Unease or frustration can make it harder to finish."

Behind the door, Holmes swore. Luridly. "Well, how will I know when I'm finished, then?"

It took a great force of will not to laugh at the innocence inherent in such a ludicrous question. "You will know, Holmes. Trust me."

"How, Watson!?"

I sighed heavily and rested my arm against the door jamb. Drawing on an infinite store of patience, I replied without inflection, "There will be a discharge. I assume you know this already, Holmes; you're not that sheltered."

Holmes made no sound for a moment, and then he informed me in a rather meek tone, "There _is_ one. But I don't think it's done."

Of course; the pre-ejaculate. In hindsight, I might have warned him that a small trickle may precede the release, and that it should not be taken for completion. Though I had never had to explain such a thing aloud before, I managed not to sound uncomfortable as I explained, "The end is characterized by a discharge of perhaps two tablespoons, delivered in a few short bursts."

Behind the door, I could hear Holmes move yet again, the bed creaking as if to betray his unsettled state. I took pity on the poor man only because I could hardly imagine reaching his age, and yet having no more knowledge or experience of these things than a school-aged boy. Book learning counted for very little in this realm. It seemed impossible for a man to approach forty in such a state of ignorance, and yet here he was.

In a softer voice contrived to carry through the door and no farther, I said, "Tell me how you're going about it, Holmes. What are you doing, exactly?"

Holmes mumbled unintelligibly for a moment, and then snapped, "I know what to do, Watson. Quit patronizing me."

"Obviously not," I countered, "or you would be through by now."

A few moments passed in silence, and then Holmes said in a tiny voice, "Why won't it just go away this time? I did nothing to encourage it."

This should have been hilarious, or at least inductive of a smile, but the fact that Holmes treated it like a punishment tugged at my heartstrings. It was a fit of insanity, perhaps, that made me relent and say, "I'm coming in, Holmes. Cover yourself up."

"I'm already covered," came the sullen reply.

When I entered, I found him perched awkwardly on the edge of the bed, his bare feet on the floor, wrapped in his dressing gown with his hands clasped tightly between his knees. He worried his own fingers as if washing them in the bare air, and he refused to look up as I pulled the door shut and locked it behind me. "You're really making a big deal out of nothing," I told him gently.

Holmes glared up at me, but there was no malice in the look, merely a profound unhappiness in the set of his mouth, and a hint of discomfiture about his eyes. His face is very expressive, though he likes to think himself unmoved at all times. Right then, I could read a warning of some sort to keep my distance, along with a muted fear and a touch of something perhaps more dangerous to us both. There was no good reason for me to be in there right now, and we both knew it. And yet here I was, gazing down at him, meeting his searching look with an open one of my own.

At length, Holmes looked away and glowered at the floor. "Stop staring, Watson. There is nothing to look at."

I must have taken leave of my senses, because I replied only half in jest, "Well, there's _you_." It was only after I said it that I realized it sounded flirtatious, and I stepped back as if to distance myself from the indecently playful words.

Sourly, Holmes replied, "You fail to amuse."

I thanked god he took it as a joke, for I was not at all certain that I had meant it as such. The thought that I had willfully flirted with him, to a purpose, frightened me. I was not an invert – _am_ not an invert. And yet I cannot deny that something in Holmes has always spoken to me more deeply than is seemly even for two friends of our close association. I do not find the male form attractive at all, and yet Holmes draws me. It is less his gender that affects me, I think, than his person in general. No two men can become as fast friends as we and not feel something for the other. I had long since accepted the fact that where Holmes was concerned, I was simply confused; I have little experience with long-standing affections, after all. It seemed no small surprise to me that I should react to such an old and trusted acquaintance with a small inversion of emotion, seeing as I am closer to no one else, and never have been. My body erroneously, on occasion, reacts to Holmes as it may to a wife, but it is only an accident of prolonged proximity, such as happens to men who reside too long in each others' company with no women to otherwise occupy their attention.

Holmes interrupted my musing by heaving a contrived sigh. "I suppose I could submerge myself in the water trough outside."

Incredulous, I exclaimed, "Holmes, it's the dead of winter!"

"A cold bath should nonetheless – "

"I won't hear of it," I cut in, fed up with his evasion. "This is not an ugly thing, Holmes. I won't let you shun it and – " Too outraged to craft a moral argument, I merely snapped, "Ice water, Holmes? Seriously? You would rather defile yourself than allow your body to have one moment of pleasure. What is wrong with you?"

Holmes scowled for a moment, and then abruptly shouted, "Why must you object to my desire to be in control of myself? _I_ am master over this body. I will not allow it to betray me!"

I stood stunned for several moments, trying in vain to understand his reasoning. Finally, I ventured, "Allowing yourself one liberty does not mean that you have lost mastery of yourself, Holmes."

"It is a weakness to give into such decadence," Holmes insisted. "And I _will not_."

"You're being ridiculous," I replied frankly. "Holmes, this vehement denial is really unlike you. It's childish, and your manner is an insult to those of us who choose to enjoy such pursuits. Are you saying that _I _am weak? That I have no mastery because I indulge in the occasional carnal interlude?"

Holmes fumed in silence at that, and I thought for a moment that I had overstepped my bounds. But finally, to my great relief, Holmes wilted a bit and confessed, "I am not accustomed to being at a loss."

I suspected that this applied to many pursuits which he declined to participate in. If he was not a master of some skill, he would not partake of it, probably for fear of ridicule. If he were the best at something, beyond reproach or criticism, then he would not have to fear looking foolish. Holmes could be insufferably arrogant, and yet the man had very few defenses as far as his confidence went. A blow to his ego could cut deeper than anything else. Hence, the manner in which he clung to the fact that he was skilled at deduction like no other man.

I knew that I shouldn't, and yet Holmes' obvious unhappiness moved me to stupidity. I wished to ease the troubled mind of a friend, to make him feel less awkward, less a failure at a task that came so easily to normal men, including me. "If you wish, I could help." In a flimsy bid to cover the ulterior motives that I did not admit having even to myself, I added, "As a doctor, I'm accustomed to helping patients with all sorts of maladies."

Holmes very slowly let one eyebrow climb toward his hairline, followed immediately by the other. He peered sidelong up at me, turning his head only far enough to be able to catch me in his periphery. In what I imagined to be the driest tone he could muster, Holmes pronounced, "You cannot be serious."

Equally droll, I replied, "I am quite serious. You are my closest friend, and I consider it my duty to help in any way I can."

Holmes actually smiled a little bit at that. "You treat me as a child, Watson. I do not require your coddling, however well-intentioned it may be." Then he blinked and huffed in small surprise. "Hum. Problem solved." His brow furrowed, extending to crease the uppermost portions of his aquiline nose. "What a strange occurrence." Then he peered again at his lap, quizzically this time.

I tried to quell my disappointment, as it seemed that a rare opportunity had passed us both by. "So you're quite yourself again?"

"The mind seems to run astray under such circumstances," Holmes mused. "It becomes quite fervent."

"Yes, it does," I agreed softly. "Holmes, I don't like that you deny yourself like this, and I will confess myself troubled that you seem to regard this event as if it were the worst thing that has happened to you all year."

Holmes sighed. "Watson, there are simply some experiences for which I find no use."

"Don't lie," I replied sharply. "You were afraid to even contemplate it."

Rather tersely, Holmes said, "Forgive me if I do not find certain things as enjoyable as you."

Gently, I replied, "It should not be feared, Holmes. It should be embraced."

"Why? Nothing will come of it. I have no interest in pursuing a woman, or in marrying. No use for knowing – "

"It is not natural, Holmes. Not _human_."

Holmes saddened before my eyes, though the change was subtle. "So you have said of me in the past. Why should I seek to disillusion you now?"

I shook my head. "Oh, Holmes."

He peered up at me, his eyes soft but guarded.

"It could take the edge off your melancholy," I pressed. I had no idea why I should take to the chase so avidly, but it seemed quite important to me at the time that I persuade him to my view of the matter. "And I'm certain that it could have therapeutic value, such as on those nights when you can't quiet your mind enough to sleep."

"Why, my dear Watson." Holmes' lip curled in amusement. "Are you trying to substitute the carnal pleasures for that other habit of mine that you despise so much?"

"It is far less likely to cause your inadvertent death than cocaine." Just to be saucy, I added, "And it's free."

Holmes' teeth showed as he fell to a hapless bout of chuckling. Not his exuberant, sometimes half-mad laughter, such as he often adopted in company, but that more genuine, softer sound. "Indeed," he drawled. "Watson, if I'm not mistaken – and I'm not – you have turned your not inconsiderable wiles on me. I forgive you, seeing that I interrupted you this afternoon and you are no doubt suffering the effects of it."

This angered me for some reason, and I felt a distinct disappointment to be so brushed off. "It is not a lingering state on account of the lady, Holmes. I am not so desperate."

Holmes scrutinized me anew, his features puzzled. "Then why are you behaving this way toward me?"

And there it was; he had called me on it, and I hadn't even meant to play the game in the first place. What could I really say? "I should think that were obvious." And let him take that however he liked.

"I'm…" How rare it was for Holmes to lose his thought in the middle of a sentence. He blinked up at me, and I could see that my offhand response had quite unsettled him. "Watson, I'm…"

His discomfiture made me bold, for reasons I chose not to examine. I stepped toward him until I could rest my hand on the footboard of his bed. He recoiled as if I had instead touched him. All I could grate out past my suddenly racing heart was a whispered, "Let me show you."

Holmes hooded his eyes, now openly wary of me. There was no reason for it; I may have been heavier, but Holmes had the advantage of strength and height. "Have a care, Watson," he warned. And he left it at that.

I ignored the reproach and stepped around to the opposite side of the bed from where he sat. Holmes did not mistake this for a retreat even though I had moved toward the second door of his bedroom, the one that let out in the upstairs hallway. Rather, he grew more tense and put his back to me, his shoulders bunching under his dressing gown. I wondered briefly if that were all he wore, or if I would find additional clothing beneath the soft gray fabric.

When I knelt on the edge of the bed behind him, Holmes started at the jostling of the mattress, and then he cringed under the hands I placed on his shoulders. We touched each other often, in innocent and chaste manners ranging from linked arms to patting down the fabric of each other's jackets, but we both knew that this was something far less innocuous.

"Relax, Holmes." I scooted forward on my knees until they bracketed his hips from behind, and all the while Holmes went more rigid in my grasp.

I admit that in part I was testing a half-formed theory that perhaps the voracity of his 'affliction' had less to do with the pretty woman in my bed, and more to do with me beneath her. It does not take a master sleuth to notice the covert glances he gives me when no one else is around to see, or the way his lips flicker in an uncertain series of smiles when he looks at me and believes that I am not observing him back. Still, I had not consciously entertained the depth of meaning behind these signs until this evening, and I thought that some madness must have gripped me to make me take such a risk with a man who had admitted not half an hour before that he was not in any way familiar with this sort of encounter. I was probably taking advantage of him, of his peculiar innocence, but I knew of no other path to take.

Holmes exhaled in a rush in response to my admonition, but I would not call it relaxation that led him to allow my arms to slip over his chest and pull him back against me. I was certain that he considered my behavior nothing more than a result of interrupted passions, having little to do with him except that he provided an expanse of warm skin. I cannot express how much this saddened me because I well knew that while Holmes considered himself needed and even sought after as a man of unusual intellect, he did not consider himself all that desirable as a friend. Not like this. He has often remarked that he does not deserve my friendship or my devotion, and I truly believe that even as friends, he did not see my affection for him as any form of love. Perhaps, I mused, this was why he sank into ennui when not engaged in a case; he saw the boredom as something repulsive, and so himself, and what could I ever see in him in that state to bind us together? If he did not provide me with fodder for new tales to write, would I leave? Would he no longer hold my interest as a fair-weather friend? How little he understood the attraction he held for me. I suppose his own attachment to me was more a novelty than anything, for why would he shun only person who regularly condescended to spend idle time with him? I am sure that in his mind, my loyalty to him is quite a mystery to behold.

Holmes tensed harder as I splayed my hands across his chest, slipping fingers past the lapels of his dressing gown to paw at bare flesh. "Watson…"

"It's alright, Holmes." I settled my front against his back and bent my head over his shoulder, touching my cheek to his neck. "Why don't you tell me about your day?" As I spoke, I moved one hand around to rub my thumb over Holmes' nipple. "You were so enthusiastic when you got home."

"It was the most p-hu…peculiar thing." Holmes twisted in my arms, and I retaliated by seizing the little nub between thumb and forefinger. Holmes hissed but stilled, though I did not release his nipple. "Quite…worthy of my attention. Watson, what are you planning to do?"

"I should think that were obvious as well."

"Perhaps to you!" Holmes exclaimed. "But it is not so to me." Then his frame was rent by a shudder as I pinched and abruptly released the small bud between my fingers. "Watson, really – "

"Just tell me about your case," I interrupted sternly. My hand ran a course down the midline of his chest to dip over his navel, and Holmes moved restlessly in response to my tantalizing touch. "I understand you had the name of the culprit and that you assisted the police in setting a trap to snare him in. Give me the facts, Holmes."

Holmes squirmed, his lips pressed tight over a reedy sort of sound that he caught in his throat, and he panted lightly as he peered down the length of his own body to where my hand rested obscenely low on the concavity of his stomach. "One Mister Relquist is responsible for the murder of Sir James and his butler." He caught his tongue between his teeth for a bare moment and stretched his neck upwards to blink at the window, as if distancing himself from both myself and the case. "At first, I was at a loss to explain the break in, as his wife could find nothing missing in the morn – morning." A hiccup cut off any further words for the time being.

"Go on." I scratched lightly at Holmes' stomach and glanced over his shoulder long enough to ascertain that he was indeed naked beneath the dressing gown.

"I suspected that the culprit had been interrupted before he could make off with – Watson!"

Holmes all but leapt in my grasp, but I held on as he twisted to avoid my hand, which had dipped below his navel to tickle fingertips against a certain very private part of his anatomy. I could feel by the steady thrum of energy in his body that his movements were not meant to discourage me, per se; surprise motivated him at the moment. As such, I went ahead and circled my fingers about the base of his organ. This stilled his residual movements and I felt, under my free hand, the rapid fluttering of Holmes' startled heartbeat where it resided in his breast. The regularity of his breathing transformed to a ragged panting.

"The case Holmes," I prompted. For whatever reason, I could sense that even in this, my dear friend would be unable to lose himself to a moment of decadence, and relating tales of his own brilliance served the dual purpose of impressing his listener, thereby rendering them somehow less threatening to him, and of soothing himself by the sound of his own voice. Holmes did, on many occasions, seem to derive an odd sort of solace from reminding himself that he possessed a formidable mind, and it seemed that his intellect was the only part of himself that he valued. A physical intimacy would not come naturally to him without it. "Did you determine what the murderer had been after?"

"Yes," Holmes gasped. He twisted again in my arms as if adjusting to the feel of a hand in a place that had probably not been touched by anyone save himself since he grew out of the nursery.

I drew him back against my chest yet again, endeavoring to hold him in place while I cupped his manhood in stillness, gratified to feel it stir anew. "Good, Holmes. Go on."

Holmes tipped his face toward the ceiling and shut his eyes, seeming to derive strength from the steady breath he forced himself to draw through his narrow nostrils. "It occurred to me that the butler had been killed second, as it appeared from the blood on his trousers that he had first knelt in his master's spilt blood, and then pursued someone from the study. His footprints in the hall bore it out; the soles of his slippers had driven miniscule spots of blood into the carpet."

"That really is quite clever, Holmes."

"Such observations are below me," Holmes asserted, breathless under the effects of my ministrations. "Even the bull-brained Scotland Yarders would have realized as much, given time."

I squeezed his cockstand for emphasis, and rebuked, "You sell yourself short, old chap."

Holmes gave a strangled wheeze and shook his head to deny that; he seemed incapable of speech at the moment.

"So, the butler awoke and found his master's body. What happened next?" I punctuated my question with another tightening of my fist, and then I gradually slid my hand up his length.

"He heard the would-be thief knock into the grandfather clock in the study." Holmes curled forward over his lap, leading me to cinch my arm tighter over his chest to keep him from toppling forward onto the floor. "It's perilously close to the door, you s-see. I stubbed my…my t-toe on it myself when I sought to leave the room. It makes an awful clang when jos-stled. Oh, god…Watson…" His hands folded over the forearm I had looped across his chest, his neatly trimmed fingernails digging into my skin even through the sleeve of my jacket.

"Calm, Holmes," I soothed. I allowed my fist to loosen as I plunged it down his stiffening length, and then on the upstroke, I again clamped my fingers around him. This elicited an almost pained grunt, and Holmes clenched his teeth, perhaps to better collect himself under this onslaught. Again, I had to remind him to go on with his account of the crime.

"The butler caught up with our man in the foyer," Holmes reported. His normally rich, deep voice had given way to something strained and forced, higher in pitch as if he were in distress. I sped up the rhythm of my hand just to see what effect it would have on him, and sure enough, Holmes choked over his next attempt to speak.

"Caught up with him in the foyer," I prompted.

Holmes exhaled in a strangled rush, squeezing out a terse, "Yes," as his lungs emptied. He sucked in a fresh breath and then held it as I stroked him, his body arching back against me.

"Holmes? The foyer."

Holmes let out a mangled sob and curled again, this time by drawing his legs up to brace his feet on the edge of the bed frame so that he could continue to press his spine against my abdomen, as if to wedge himself in place against an expected storm. His fingers gouged the thick fabric of my jacket sleeve as he fought not to make any more sounds, though with my own cheek pressed to the taut chords of his neck, I could feel the whimpers that he did not voice on every short, rapid burst of air he exhaled. Shortly after, he squeezed his eyes shut, his entire face consumed by the effort, his jaw clenched and the skin about his eyes and mouth crinkled under the strain.

"Good," I whispered, endeavoring to sooth. I had no idea if my attempt were successful, but I repeated, my mouth right up against his ear, "Good, Holmes."

He trembled violently in waves as I continued to stroke him, pale beads of milky fluid seeping from his crown to lubricate the passage of my fingers along his rigid length. I felt a thrill of power at knowing that I had reduced the irreducible Holmes to this quivering mass of taut limbs, to a mere man enslaved by an abundance of sensation that he had never before allowed himself to feel. My pride increased sevenfold when a thin wisp of a moan snuck past his defenses to curl about the humid air surrounding our heated forms.

Spurred on by this small surrender, and by his newfound silence, I firmly twisted my arm to dislodge his hands and scooted back toward the headboard, dragging his unresisting form with me. I leaned against the headboard and settled my spread legs on either side of him, clutching him to me as I reclined just enough to make him more comfortable. It occurred to me as I arranged our bodies that I should probably be feeling a similar arousal by now, but I did not. I admit to a certain warmth deep in the pit of my belly, but nothing more untoward than that. And I admit also that my lack of response to having Holmes so helpless and undone was rather a disappointment to me. In my darkest heart, I wished I could share the excitement of this with him, and yet beyond the thrill of besting his defenses, I could not.

To divert attention from this, as if I thought I needed to, I drew Holmes more firmly against myself with my free arm and resumed my gentle massage of his cockstand. Holmes bit back an abrupt cry and shivered violently, so that I could feel the vibration all throughout my being and down to my knees where he had relocated his hands to anchor himself to me. "Relax, Holmes. You're almost there."

Holmes' fingers clenched in a rhythm to match my strokes to his weeping cock, his head thrown back against my shoulder, the tendons standing out in stark relief throughout the lines of his body. He was too thin, I noted; like a rake, always. It dismayed me to be able to count each one of his ribs as he strained in my grasp, even in the dim light of his darkened room. I could see how close he was, his abdomen hollowed beneath the boundaries of his ribcage, his stomach clenching visibly in the shadows. It was beautiful, the sight of this untouchable man coming unhinged for me, and yet the victory of dragging him to this precipice fell as an empty one in my mind. I could not understand why, for if I forced myself to be honest, I had desired a permutation of this for quite some time.

Holmes continued to hold back the unwanted noises caught in his throat, eventually resorting to a rapid series of hard swallows. His adamsapple bobbed each time his throat contracted, and then he turned his face into my bicep to hide the expression there. It took me several seconds to realize that he was also muffling himself against the fabric of my jacket, and in response, I increased the tempo and force of my strokes.

Finally, Holmes cried out in earnest, writhing for a moment before he regained the rigidity with which he had been holding himself still. He folded further to the side to be able to shove his hawkish nose into the crook of my elbow, the better to stifle himself. I let him shift between my legs until he sat mostly on his left hip, curled partway over my knee with his legs spread in a wanton display of manly debauchery. I braced him with my arm hooked under his chest and continued to stroke him, my grip unforgiving and my rhythm quite frankly brutal in its speed. He was so close, but he seemed wither unable or unwilling to let himself go, to take that last step and give in to both me and himself. It seemed a small torture to persevere like this, to insist via the sure grip of my fingers that he relinquish himself to a brief moment of blinding pleasure.

At length, I realized that I had been speaking to him for some time, softly encouraging and reassuring him, my lips pressed to his hairline just behind his right ear. The cadence of Holmes' breathing changed and I felt him give way to deeper, shuddering breaths that came too fast, and I thought that he must be feeling lightheaded by now. He shook violently by this juncture, his lungs heaving tattered draughts of cool air, his helpless, involuntary moans muffled against me. I continued to speak to him, gentle words in his ear that degenerated into gruff demands that he let himself go, that he give himself to over to my care, and lastly, that he come now. For me. I believe that I actually said that – _Come, Holmes_ – as he so often ordered me when he traipsed out the door to pursue a clue in a case. _Come…_

Holmes' breath hitched violently in his lungs and I could feel the shock race through him as the sensations began to overwhelm him. "Ah – god!" A desperate, wordless exclamation followed, and his entire body went fiercely rigid, his back rounded and his head arched back as he sought to curl over himself, as if to protect his release within the confines of his torso. His fingernails dug painfully into the soft skin behind my knees but I maintained the savage pace I had set with my fist, determined that Holmes should endure the full force of it. Then he thrashed, his teeth clenched while he made a sound that I can only describe as a punctured accordion. A second later, he stiffened again, holding his breath as if perhaps he hoped to stave off the inevitable, his head falling forward until he could clamp his teeth over the meat of his own palm.

I watched in abject fascination as he apparently battled against himself, holding back by some indomitable force of will. There was no way he could expect himself not to come, not with his prick seeping viscous fluid in a steady flow over my fingers. Holmes sobbed around the flesh clamped in his teeth, but this time, there was only ecstasy in the sound of it.

I could pinpoint the exact moment when Holmes reached the precipice. His gasps deepened, his entire body heaving with the force of each labored, forceful breath. And then finally, he arched in unbridled bliss on the next exhale, his voice forced out from his constricted throat past clenched teeth with a sound like two shards of glass sheering against each other. I milked his orgasm from him while he shook and emitted sharp, harsh gasps of involuntary sound, his right leg drawing up through no conscious design, his very toes splayed while he suffered through an orgasm that appeared longer and more intense than any I myself can recall having. His seed flowed down over the backs of my fingers, hot and fluid, and still I stroked him hard and fast throughout. Only when his breathing turned choppy and his movements to a pained squirm did I slow and then stop altogether. I left my hand where it was for the time being, though, and relished in the feel of his member softening in the circle formed by my now cramped fingers.

Holmes shivered and slumped back against me in a boneless heap, wrung out and exhausted, panting roughly to catch his breath. His fingers gradually unfurled from their death grip on my knees and felt him relax in measurable stages until his unfettered weight rested solidly against my chest, his arms draped across my thighs, his dressing gown open and patched with sweat from his exertions. I, too, had perspired some small bit, but it was nothing like the flush that had overcome Holmes' body.

When I judged Holmes to be falling asleep where he laid, I finally let go of his spent penis. Holmes jerked lightly at the inadvertent friction of fingers against his over-sensitized member, and then immediately settled again, licking his lips in the process. If I were a man of greater fancy, I would have said that he positively purred for a moment in delight, but Holmes' voice obliterated an trace of such a notion from my mind. "Watson…promise me you will never do that again."

I tried to read Holmes' intentions in the slack lines of his sated countenance, but I could see nothing there that he did not intend me to see. His composure had returned to a remarkable and disturbing degree. In sudden fear for the line I had crossed, I asked, "Have I damaged this beyond repair?"

"Mmm…no, old friend." Holmes shook his head, which amounted to no more than a lazy back-and-forth roll of his head where it rested against my chest. Indeed, there was nothing in his demeanor to hint at reproach, and his gravelly voice carried only warmth and an odd brand of tenderness that I seldom heard in him. "You have not offended me."

I nodded with my nose pressed into his hair, inhaling the scent of his pomade mixed with a lingering odor of tobacco and that singular aroma that is peculiar only to him. "Just the same, I apologize, Holmes."

Holmes flapped his hand in a dismissive wave. "Tut, Watson. It has been an odd evening all around. We shall speak no more of it."

"That is very generous of you." I took note of the fact that I still held his lanky frame in a loose embrace, and that he did nothing to dissuade me from remaining there. On instinct, I hugged him closer to myself, and he in turn huddled against me, as if he hoped to burrow out a snug nest in which to pass the rest of the night.

In fact, we did pass the remaining dark hours without leaving his bed, and after he fell into a languid sleep, I dozed off too. When morning came, however, I was alone, and Holmes had already left to tie up the loose ends of his case. He never did relate the rest of it to me; to this day, I have no idea what it was he had come home to brag about when he burst into my bedchamber. It is a mutual silence, and best left as such.


End file.
